


Out of the Flame

by NewSoul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fix-It, M/M, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Promise, but its a happy ending, if you like mary you may not like this though, sherlock very much does not like mary in this story, this started as an exercise and it mutated, unnecessary angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4313862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewSoul/pseuds/NewSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What should have happened when Sherlock pulled John from the fire. This is written kind of as a stream of Sherlock's consciousness and is how I think that he thinks, in a readable form at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Flame

The stolen, _well borrowed_ ,motorbike roars underneath me. Not that I hear it. _It’s just transport_ , I think, _and John is the destination._ I’ve only just returned to the land of the living and already he is back in harm’s way. Cutting a hard right, I bring us around the bend and parallel to St. James’ the Less, the place the skip code mentioned. I scan the scene to my right, searching for any sign of John. It looks like a group has a Guy Fawkes bonfire set up a bit early. The ragtag effigy of the would-be bomber looks more like a scarecrow than the man it was meant to represent.

Mary squeezes my waist to get my attention and reaches around to show me one final text:

 

_What a shame Mr Holmes. John was quite a Guy._

I squint at the text… _why is Guy capitalized?_ Looking back over to my right I see the bonfire go up in flames, the _Guy Fawkes_ bonfire.

“Oh my God,” I gasp as the realization hits me. I jam the accelerator forward, and stare in shock at the fire dancing over where I now know John to be. The flames taunt me as I skid to a stop at the outskirts of the crowd. I throw the bike to the ground. It’s not mine, why should I care? I unceremoniously rip off my helmet and toss it God knows where in my haste to reach the burning pyre.  As I dash through the crowd I scream his name, praying its not too late for him to hear me. I know I’m running people over but I don’t care, I shove them to the ground like I’m playing rugby, John’s safety supersedes theirs in every possible way. I can almost hear the terrified screams of children but not over his. _His…_ John is yelling in fear, I can hear him through the pile of wood as I reach it. I continue to scream his name, I know I must sound mad with terror.

 _Hang on John, oh please, please hang on. You can’t do this to me, not now, not after I’ve just returned._ Mindless prayers like these run through my head like a flood as I begin to tear through the fire towards John’s cries of… pain? Fear? Only time will tell for sure, but at least I can hear him. If I can hear him it means that he’s still alive. I don’t feel the heat of the flames, fire is nothing to me now, only John matters. Never feeling the sting of the burning debris, I hurl anything blocking my view off the pile. I don't take the time to comprehend dull pain it leaves behind as the flames lick at my hands. I do know that this is going to leave burns somewhere in the back of my mind but it’s not functioning properly right now.

I never really could think efficiently when John was in danger.

First there was Moriarty and the swimming pool. I had managed to put up a façade of calm while Jim was in the room, but the second he left it slipped dismally and I lost all control of my actions. Ripping the damnable bomb and jacket off of John with more fervor than a lustful teenager and subsequently losing the ability to form proper sentences. I physically could not think with that bloody thing strapped to _my_ blogger. Looking back after the fact I didn’t understand what had come over me. I’m a sociopath. Those things don’t affect me… _right_? Then there was Saint Bart’s. That was a wholly separate and new level of distraction entirely. All Moriarity had to do was just hint that there was even a possibility of John being in danger and I was ready to dive from the rooftop to protect him, airbag in place or not. It was fear for John that forced my silence for two years on the matter of how I survived the same fall that tore us apart. The nightmare that Moriarty’s network would learn of my greatly exaggerated demise and then seek out John to, as he put it, _burn the heart out of me._ This, however, became another example of my inability to think with John’s safety in question, when my silence did not protect him as I’d hoped but had nearly broken him instead. _It’s nearly destroyed us both._ He had suffered in my absence and now it was looking as if I may never have his forgiveness.   

Somewhere, as I shred through the flames, Mary is screaming, but what does she know of fear for John. She wasn’t on the roof at Saint Bart’s, playing for time and John’s life with a madman. She wasn’t there to see John wired to Symtex, red dots dancing a morbid ballet across his chest. She’s never sat next to a hospital bed after a particularly messy case worrying over John’s wounds, praying that he would _just wake up_. Mary knows nothing. _I_ am the one tearing into the heat, and _I’m_ the one who spots a gloved, shaking hand, _John’s hand_.

I grasp for John’s arm pulling with every ounce of strength I have. I don’t care at this point if I dislocate his shoulder pulling him out. I just need him out of the fire, away from the flames and out of death’s reach. The doctors can mend a shoulder, they can’t heal (and I can’t bear) a corps. I drag him out of the pile and rest him an excessive distance away from it.  I’m taking no chances with this mysterious texter, or with John for that matter.

Once I’ve finally moved him out of the clutches of the flames I check his vitals. His pulse is high, beating like hummingbirds' wings, and his breath is sporadic at best. I’m still shouting his name and he’s slowly responding to it. As he starts to flinch away from my voice I can’t stop myself. I place a hand on his cheek, cradling his face, and whisper his name in hushed tones. I tell him that it’s ok, that he is out of the fire and that I’m- _we’re_ here now. _I’d rather it were just me._ I’ve never regretted not telling him how I’ve felt more than now as his wretched almost-fiancée stands next to me, doing remarkably little for someone who is a registered nurse. “Call 999!” I yell at her, knowing that John needs treatment for smoke inhalation at the least. I check his trembling form for burns. Blessedly, it looks like it’s just his clothes that are singed and not him but, again, I take no chances.   

I talk to him, John, _my John_ , and I try to get him to respond. I ask him if he’s in pain, where it hurts. He doesn’t answer me but his blue grey eyes never leave mine. They’re full of surprise, as if he somehow can’t quite believe that I’m here, or that I even exist. Eventually he reaches out and grabs my shoulder, clinging to me as if I were a life raft in a hurricane. It’s the first time he’s touched me since I’ve returned where he hasn’t intended to hurt me and it feels like I’m finally home. It’s as if before this moment I was still chained in that Serbian dungeon and now, with John’s hand wrapped around my arm, I’m back in London at last. It is miraculous.

When the paramedics finally arrive after what seems like hours, he hasn’t let go of me yet. Eventually the EMT’s give up trying to pry his fingers from my coat and I ride along in the back of the ambulance. There isn’t enough room in the back so we have to leave Mary behind. I do my best not to look too pleased. After all she was the one who brought me the skip code in the first place, without her John would almost certainly be dead now.

When we reach the hospital John won’t release me, so I do my best to look like I belong in the middle of the crowd surrounding him. It’s easy. Hangers on who act like they know what they’re doing are easily swept up in the cacophony of an emergency room. They check John for the severity of the smoke inhalation and give him oxygen to combat the ash I know is clogging his lungs. All while I hold his hand and he stays latched onto my arm. There will be bruises where his hand is clenched in the flesh of my arm tomorrow, but it’s an injury I would gladly bear if it means that John is ok and with me.

John reacts to all the medical staff fine, he even has become more coherent, at least until they try to draw blood. It’s my fault, they’re doing it at my request. I know that whoever put John in the fire had to kidnap him to do so. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers does not go without a fight and there were no bruises around his head or neck to signify that he had been knocked out. So naturally, I assumed that he had been drugged. I asked the nurse to draw some blood to check for the basics before they gave him anything that might react with it, thinking that I was saving him pain later. _Christ, I was so wrong._ I’d been wrong a lot since I’d returned. When the nurse went to take blood from him, John nearly has a panic attack.

He is screaming at the nurses and lashing out erratically. They yell for orderlies to come in and restrain him, and I know that this will not help. I do the only thing I can think of. I yell his name and cradle his face like I did at the bonfire and it’s like flipping a switch. The second John’s eyes lock on mine the fear disappears and the quiet disbelief returns to take its place. I talk to him, tell him that its ok, we’re here to help. The doctors and nurses look at me like I have seven heads until one of them regains sense enough to take John’s blood now while he’s calm. My John doesn’t even flinch as the needle pricks the vein in his elbow, he’s too focused on me. While the staff work to get him out of the room as fast as possible I talk to him. I tell him stories of my travels these past two years.

John had always loved to listen to the old cases I had before he was around. He had even written a few up before my fall. I tell him of the white snows in the Himalayas where I posed as a Buddhist monk to catch a diamond thief and smuggler. I bemoan the heat and grime of New Delhi as I tell John how I managed to convince a police officer that his most important clue was a chocolate chip in an ice cream cone.  I regale him with the Hollywood worthy story of how I not only convinced the German government to hold a jury trial, but my subsequent planting on said jury, and how I managed to flip the six other jurors on the bench in order to convict a man of murder.

By the time I finish the last story John is asleep and sunlight is streaming through the windows of the room we’ve been moved to. Though  his fingers have shifted to my own John  _still_ hasn’t let go of my hand. My fingers are now numb but, once again, I don’t care. Out of the corner of my eye I see Mary peering in through the window of the door at us and I have no idea how long she has been standing there. She has an unreadable look on her face until understanding takes its place and she mouths, “take care of him,” to me before walking away. It is the last time I ever see her. She doesn’t even return when the doctors come in to say that John is fine, even if he is a bit smoked, and that they’ll release him as soon as he wakes up. Relief washes over me and exhaustion sets in all at once. I push my chair closer to the John’s bed so I don’t break his grip on my hand and I fall asleep right there.

I awaken to John tracing indecipherable patterns on the palm of my hand, which apparently has elected this moment to finally regain some sensation. I turn my head to face him and stormy grey eyes fix on mine. I prepare myself for it to come to blows again. Gone is the John of last night, the one who needed me like oxygen. The John that tackled me to the floor of a public restaurant and wrapped his hands around my throat is back. I swallow my inquires about how he feels and prepare for the worst.

Pregnant silence passes between us and the air crackles with rising tension but then John sighs and with his breath the pressure releases. There is another pause before he asks, “Where’s Mary?” and the question is more painful than any blow he could have thrown my way.

“Gone,” I reply, trying to keep despondency from coloring my voice. “She stopped by while you were asleep, but never came in.”

John nods as if he expected as much. “She’s not coming back is she?” he asks again and I take another punch to the stomach.

Swallowing again, my answer is curt, “no,” I supply. He nods again, his suspicions confirmed. I nearly break then and there, because John looks so disappointed. It seems like all I do now is disappoint him. I look away because I cannot stand his gaze after I’ve not only managed to get him nearly killed but also chased away his fiancée in only a few hours.

John says nothing but I can feel the silent judgement taking place in his mind. _This is it_ , I decide, _this is where he realizes that it’s too much. This is when he’ll send me away._ I close my eyes, unable to endure his rejection with any poise whatsoever.

John sighs again and I tense for whatever hateful words he is going to say. I feel my hand rise into the air, and I freeze as I feel John tentatively press his lips to the back of it. “I guess this means it really is just the two of us against the world again, hunh?” he says. My eyes fly open in shock and my head swivels of its own accord to face him. His eyes it looks as if he has finally given in after fighting something for far too long and his face looks battle worn from the surrender, but there is a soft smile playing on his lips.  

My jaw drops, and it’s my turn to gape in disbelief. John’s smile broadens at my surprise as he threads his fingers through mine and I can’t breathe. _I’m dreaming_ , I resolve, _there’s no way this is happening._ I sit there, frozen in place, processing for god knows how long before I hear John’s voice through the confused haze.

“Alright that’s getting a bit scary now,” he jokes.

I force myself to say something, anything, “why?” is all I can manage. It whispers through my lips like the ghost of what I actually want to say.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, “All this does not mean that I’m not still basically pissed off with you.”

I manage a nod, still not understanding what’s happening.

“I am  _very_  pissed off, and it  _will_  come out now and then.” John continues, squeezing my hand for emphasis, “but you’re _here_.” He looks into my eyes the same way that he did last night, still not quite comprehending my existence. “I wanted you not to be dead and _you’re here_.”

I huff a laugh at that, “Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for,” I say, “If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be laying here, and no madman would have put you into a bonfire. You’d still have a future… with _Mary_ -” my voice breaks, I can’t do this, not to John. I get up _, I’ll find her, tell her he loves her, and leave the two of them in peace. I’ll- I’ll…_ John pulls me back down, this time I land on the side of his bed.  

“You don’t understand,” he says and he exhales long-sufferingly. “I don’t remember much of last night but I do remember you. You never left my side did you?”

I shake my head, “how could I?” I ask, my voice rasping with sentiment I never imagined I'd ever have. Why would he think that I would ever leave him when he needed me like that? Especially since the last time I left him it nearly killed us both.

John smiles again and the view of it twists around the heart that up until two years ago I thought I never had. It’s the first time he’s smiled at me since I’ve returned, the first time in two long years. “That’s what I meant,” he explains, “you’re here, you always were. After you came back from the dead I thought the reason you never told me was because... you didn’t care.”

I stare down at the bedsheets, utterly flabbergasted, “how could you think that?” I wheeze, absolutely wrecked by John’s assumption.   

“You didn’t give me much to go on you git.” He says, lifting my chin to look him in the eye, “until last night that is.” He pauses and moves his hand to my cheek, “I was half out of my mind on whatever they drugged me with and smoke inhalation.”

I wince. _My fault_ , I think, but John passes his thumb over my cheek and banishes the thought.

“I couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, and this,” he squeezes my hand and makes another pass with his thumb, “this is what kept me sane. You were there the entire time, I don’t even remember seeing anyone else, and you looked more worried than I’ve ever seen you.” He leans forward, resting his forehead against mine. He moves his hand to the back my neck, holding me in place. I want to tell him that he doesn’t need it, I wouldn’t move away from this for anything, that I could never be anything other than a willing prisoner of this embrace, but John speaks again. His words are resolute as he looks in to my eyes, a mere inch from his own. “That’s how I knew that you not caring couldn’t have been the reason for your silence.”

“No,” I sob. Finally he understands and it’s like a dam bursting in my chest. I don’t even think as I tilt my head to press my lips against his. Christ, I’ve longed for this. Two years of running, torture, and heartache, and all I’ve ever wanted the entire time has been this. I take the hand that is not holding his and shove it into his hair. When he first moves his lips against mine I let loose an inhuman noise that probably wakes up half the ward we’re in. Frankly, I could give a damn, because John, _my John_ , is clenching his fist in my hair and running his tongue over my own, making quiet gasps and other noises into my mouth. It tastes like smoke and whiskey and heaven on earth.

When we break apart we’re both breathless, panting with our faces inches apart. John breaths air out and I breathe it in. He is the first to speak, “God Sherlock, one word,” he exhales, echoing his words from days ago, “one word is all I would have needed and I would have waited for you, for this.” He opens his eyes and I feel his blond eyelashes brush my cheek.

I’m openly weeping now, hating myself for not seeing this sooner and ever grateful that I have now rather than when it was too late. “I couldn’t, John. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, for all the hurt I’ve caused you,” I spew, tears streaming down my face, “they would have killed you had you known.” If John doesn’t understand what I’m talking about he makes no mention of it, he just wraps his arms around me and holds me as sobs wrack my body. “Please,” I beg, “please forgive me John.”

There is a brief pause before John responds, “You know I find it difficult… this sort of stuff,” he whispers, his face resting in the hair on top of my head. I nod slightly against his chest, too far gone to be capable of any kind of speech. John sucks in a breath, choosing his words with care. “You are,” he starts, emotion cracking his voice and stealing his articulation. He takes another breath and tries again, “you are, the best… and wisest man that I have ever known.” He grips my jaw and tilts my head to look at him once more. “Of course, I forgive you,” and his mouth is on mine before I can return the litany of thanks that rests on the tip of my tongue.

John steals all words from me with his own tongue. I can’t focus on anything but the points of contact between me and the man that I spent two years protecting. His lips on my entire face, neck, and shoulders, he can seem to decide where he wants them most. Both of his hands are in my hair, my own are knotted in his hospital gown, clutching at anything I can use to pull him closer. My breathing is spastic and I love every second of it. _I love this man_ , I think, unable to stop the thought from flowing forward.

John pulls back suddenly, “What did you say?” he asks, and I blanch. Apparently I hadn’t just thought it, too lost in the heat of the moment to be aware of what I was voicing.

I swallow and repeat myself, for once not minding the redundancy as John’s expression of shock blooms into a full on grin. His white teeth a stark contrast to his kiss reddened lips and the blushing suntanned skin that frame them. “Me too,” he responds and we’re kissing again.

Before John I never knew what desire was. I never knew what it is to want, because as I sit here, on this thin hospital mattress, I want to kiss and claim John for my own in every way humanly possible. To mark him as mine so that no one, not even his ex-almost-fiancée, can think that he belongs to anyone else but me. However, as usual, John has other, admittedly more conscientious, plans.

“Not here,” he says, loosening my grip in the hem of his gown, which I was in the process of shoving upwards, and I groan in dismay. “There’s bound to be a nurse check in a moment and this isn’t the softest bed in the world,” John continues, ever the voice of reason to my impulsivity. Then he grabs my hands, “I’m not saying never, just not here.” He brings them up to his lips to kiss them again and for the first time I realize that I never took off my gloves. John must notice the same because when he begins to peel them off I yelp in pain.

Immediately John shifts from the soft and love struck man he was before and the doctor takes hold. Concern fills his eyes as he eases both gloves off my hands and stares at the superficial burns that now cover my palms. Without asking any questions he hits the call button for the nurse. “You didn’t just pull me out of that bonfire did you?” he asks as we wait. “You had to dig me out.”

I nod slowly. “I’m fine,” I say, minimizing what I know is nothing compared to what John had to endure, but the doctor sitting across from me shakes his head.   

“You’re getting them checked.” He says in a voice that meant there would be no argument. John only ever used it when I was being particularly trying. I nod in acquiescence as the nurses pour in, simultaneously checking that John had awoken to no ill effects and obeying John’s orders to check over my hands.

I endure all their ministrations without complaint until they try to get me to move to a different room where they can disinfect and treat the burns. I will not be separated from John, not after what we _just_ shared. As I start to protest however John places a hand on my forearm and I get a taste of what people feel when I deduce them as his words assuage all my worries. “Go,” he says, “it’s alright, I know you’ll be back this time.” When he finishes, he lifts my arm to press another kiss to the undamaged back of my hand and I know he’s right. When the nurses are done treating my hands John will come and find me. He will probably yell at the nurses because they won’t give me pain medication (an annoying side effect of drug addiction), but then we’ll go home, to Baker Street, and he’ll kiss me like I’ve wanted him to for 24 months. We’ll order rubbish takeaway and chase criminals through London’s streets at three am. I’ll yell at John for forgetting to buy milk and he’ll yell at me for leaving toes in the fridge but in the end, everything will undoubtedly be alright. I’ll have what I died for, the man I am living for, and that’s more than I could have ever hoped to possess.  

**Author's Note:**

> I was taking a break from It's Who You Choose (because the next chapter is smut and that's difficult for me to write) and doing a writing exercise in first person POV when this happened. I thought I'd share! Hope you guys enjoyed! Come follow me on tumblr I'm @ consultedlestrade!


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